‘Yeah, and they’re all branded. The calves won’t be of course, but the cows are.’
Kevin watched as Glenn wrote down something else and tapped his pen against his mouth.
‘You haven’t reported this.’ It was a statement not a question.
‘Nope.’
‘The obvious question here is why.’
Kevin wound the string around his fingers again as he tried to frame his answer. ‘There’s a lotta history, you know?’
Shifting on the drum, Glenn squinted. ‘History?’
‘Between your crew and mine.’
Glenn didn’t say anything, so Kevin continued. ‘Fact is that my dad and the Elders here don’t trust the coppers. They don’t want me to say anything.’
‘’Cause they reckon I’m bent. Now who’s chucking rocks at people?’
Glenn’s tone was hard, and Kevin could hear the resignation in his voice. ‘Look, Kev, I’ve worked pretty hard to get a relationship with everyone, no matter their skin colour, since I turned up here ten-odd years ago. This isn’t about race, mate, it’s about some lowlife thieving bastard who needs to be caught.’
Kevin didn’t want to be swayed by the impassioned speech, but he also needed someone to talk to. He didn’t want to lie down and take what was happening anymore. Still, he had to resist a little—or at least get across his point of view.
‘The police, they always take the whitefellas’ side. Not ours. And in the past we’ve been accused of things we haven’t done.’ He leaned forwards, making sure that Glenn was listening to him. ‘We’ve had to take the rap for some of the whitefellas. You can’t blame the Elders for not liking that and being distrustful of you. Their memories are very long.’
‘Have I caused any of that?’ Glenn asked.
Kevin paused and raised his eyebrows. ‘Not that I know of.’
‘Then don’t tar me with the same brush as the coppers before me.’ Glenn crossed his arms and stared at Kevin.
‘Historical hurt and all that,’ Kevin answered quietly.
‘So you’re going to let some bastard get away with taking everything you’re working towards?’
Anger flared again. ‘You think I like this?’ Kevin almost yelled. ‘You think I like my neighbours coming onto my land and taking my cattle? I’m hamstrung by the past, no matter how hard I try to change it! Old hurts still haunt us.’ ‘Okay, stop right there.’ Glenn held up his hand. ‘Kit Redman was the person who made the report about the cattle. I can’t see him doing that if he was stealing them himself, can you?’
‘What?’ Kevin looked at him, not understanding.
‘That’s right, mate. It was Kit who came to me. He’s not doing this. It’s someone else.’
Kevin was silent as he raced to process what Glenn had just said. ‘He came to you?’
‘He did,’ Glenn confirmed. ‘Last week.’
‘Okay.’ The string twisted harder around his work-worn fingers.
‘You want to make that report?’
Glancing over his shoulder, Kevin took a breath. ‘You gotta understand, I’m worried about how Dad and the Elders will respond, but yeah, Sergeant, I want to report some of our cattle being stolen.’ He looked down, hoping he was doing what was best for everyone.
Glenn leaned over and clapped Kevin on the shoulder. ‘You’re doing the right thing, mate. I’ll make sure you’re looked after.’
‘What happens now?’
‘Well, I need that video, like I said. I don’t care if you put it in the post to me, but I need the footage ASAP. I’m going to head off to another few stations and make some more enquiries. When I get back to Boogarin, depending on what I find, I’ll probably ring the stockies. See if they can come up and have a look around. All right if I use the access road to get across to Paperbark Valley?’ He named another station to the east of Spinifex Downs.
Kevin nodded.
‘Right-oh, I’ll get on then. Make sure you get in touch if you need anything or notice something unusual.’
‘Will do,’ Kevin said, sounding more certain than he felt. ‘I’ll wait to hear from you.’
‘I’ll be in touch soon.’ Glenn held out his hand and Kevin shook it. Just before he got into his vehicle, he turned back to him. ‘You fellas coming in to the rodeo on the weekend?’
‘Some of us will be,’ Kevin nodded. ‘It’s a bit hard to keep everyone away.’
‘See you there then.’
Two minutes later the troopy was out of sight. The dust it stirred up hung in the air for a while, without a breeze to shift it, just like Kevin’s thoughts.
‘What’d he want?’ Jackie appeared with a short leather whip in his hand. He cracked it, then checked the cracker.
‘I reported the cattle missing.’
Jackie didn’t say anything but cracked the whip again, a little harder.
‘I had to.’
‘Nah. Nah, you didn’t. Now he’s going to be saying that we’re pointing the finger at the other station owners. I told you, boy, we don’t do this. Don’t report things.’
Chapter 7
The spotlights lit up the unloading ramp and the rest of the saleyards as Dave and Bob stepped along the walkway.
It was still dark, and the bitter cold made Dave wish he’d put a T-shirt on under his shirt and jacket. Saleyards always seemed to be freezing cold and muddy, no matter the time of year.
The smell of sheep and shit hit Dave and he breathed the odour in. To him, it smelled like home; he stopped and watched the busyness for a few seconds.
Men in green or red shirts were penning the sheep with expertise, guiding them with plastic pipes and checking the numbers against the paperwork. The sheep baa-ed as their hooves clicked on the cement floor and the gates and chains rattled loudly.
The calls of ‘Hup, hup! Get up!’ were loud and Dave watched as a couple of kelpies ran up and down the race, encouraging the sheep in a particular direction with short, loud barks. He couldn’t help but smile. Men stood in the middle of the raceway, closing the gate when one pen was full, then opening another gate and guiding the next mob into another pen. Further out, away from the roof-covered yards, Dave could see the twinkling tail-lights of the trucks as they reversed into loading ramps and ran off more sheep to be sold. This was a world he loved.
‘Dave?’ Bob called above the racket and waved him over. ‘Son, I want you to meet Bundy. He’s the auctioneer. Bundy, our newest recruit, Dave Burrows.’
Dave bristled at ‘son’ but smiled and held out his hand.
‘Glad to meet you, Dave. You need anything, just ask.’ Bundy grasped Dave’s hand in a strong grip and then clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Hopefully we won’t have too much work for you.’
‘I’m ready if you do,’ Dave said.
‘Big yarding today?’ Bob asked.
‘About ten thousand. Big enough. The buyers will have to open their pockets a bit if they want to get their purchases. Couple of blokes from the eastern states here chasing lambs. Price is a bit high for them at home.’
‘Should keep things interesting.’
A young girl stuck her head out of a demountable hut and yelled to Bundy, ‘You’re needed here!’
‘Ah, bugger. Looks like I’ve got to go. I’ll catch you both a bit later.’ He nodded and walked quickly across the railing to the building.
‘They’re the offices,’ Bob said with a jerk of his head towards the direction Bundy was walking. ‘All the paperwork that comes with the animals goes in there once the count has been verified. So if you need any documentation, best idea is to make friends with one of the pretty little things in there. They’re a good source too. Know most of what goes on in the yards. Who’s who and who’s where. That sort of thing. These are big yards—set on nearly fourteen hectares. They hold a lot of cattle … and a lot of sheep.’
A man wearing a two-way hooked to his belt and a heavy oilskin coat walked past and openly stared at the set of horns on Dave’s jacket.
‘Tel
l me again why we’re in uniform?’ Dave said. The light-blue shirt had a set of large horns, not dissimilar to the R.M. Williams logo, embroidered on the left-hand side, and again on the outside of his jacket. He’d thought it was odd that Bob had told him to come dressed like this. Surely if someone was going to be doing anything underhand at the yards, the stockies would want to be in plain clothes?
‘I know what you’re thinking, we should be in plain clothes so we can see if anything illegal is happening. Son, it doesn’t work like that. These fellas need to know who we are, so they can come and talk to us.
‘This uniform, it’s not as obvious as the ones the street boys wear. It just subtly lets everyone know who we are and, if they need us, they can come and track us down to have a yarn privately.’
Dave nodded. He figured if he turned up at the saleyards once every couple of weeks it wouldn’t take long for people to know who he was whether he was in a uniform or not. It would be the same crowd of auctioneers, yards men and buyers every week.
‘Bob! Good to see you, old mate.’ A grey-haired man with deep wrinkles around his blue eyes sauntered over.
‘Robbie, how you doing?’
‘Not going to complain. No one listens anyway,’ Robbie said as his eyes turned curiously to Dave. ‘Got a new bloke, so I see.’
‘Yep. New one on the team,’ Bob said and introduced Dave. ‘Robbie is the yard manager. Any issues, go to him first.’
‘What made you want to hang out in freezing, wet, shit-smelling saleyards, Dave? Only us stupid old buggers choose to do that,’ Robbie said, his eyes bright.
Dave liked Robbie at first glance. His wizened face told of many years of experience. He would’ve seen a few things and heard a few stories, Dave thought. Giving a laugh, he said, ‘I don’t know what you mean. This is my ideal job!’
Robbie nodded. ‘I’d have to agree with you, lad, but thousands wouldn’t. Where you from?’
‘Originally? From a farm just out of Northam. More recently I’ve been in Barrabine.’
‘Gold country? Obviously you didn’t make your fortune ’cause you wouldn’t be here if you did.’ He turned to Bob. ‘Anything going on that I need to know about?’
Bob shook his head. ‘Not a thing. Just wanted to bring Dave on his first excursion, you know. Introduce him round.’
‘Grant’s back today. You make sure you catch up and introduce young Dave here.’ He turned to Dave and explained, ‘Grant’s in charge of unloading the trucks and getting the cattle to the right pens.’
‘Holidays finished already? Did he get a tan?’ Bob asked.
‘More than that. He got himself engaged.’ Robbie gave an exaggerated wink.
‘Silly bastard,’ Bob said with a laugh.
‘He doesn’t think so,’ Robbie said. ‘Anyway, make sure you go and find him, all right?’
‘We’ll do just that, mate. No worries.’
Dave nodded farewell as Bob guided him up onto selling rails above the pens and cast his arm out. ‘Tell me what you see here, Dave.’
Dave looked around. There were sheep of every age and size. Some with wool, some shorn. There were a few blokes leaning into the pens, checking the mouths of ewes, and others feeling the ribs of prime lambs. Fat scoring, seeing how much cover the lambs had, to make sure they were neither too skinny nor too fat for the butchers. They had to be just right.
Like the porridge in the Three Bears, Dave’s grandfather used to say.
‘Okay, those fellas over there,’ Dave pointed to two men who were now inside the pen and feeling the lambs all over. ‘They’d be buying for the abs, I’d reckon.’ He resisted looking over at Bob to see if he was right. ‘And that one there,’ he pointed to a man and woman, dressed in jeans and thick jumpers, with beanies on their heads. They were leaning against a pen of ewes. Dave had noticed the man inside the pen, about five minutes before, tipping the ewes over, checking their udders were in good condition and making sure they didn’t have a broken mouth. ‘I think they’re farmers looking for replacement ewes.’
Bob nodded.
‘I personally wouldn’t buy replacement ewes out of saleyards, because here is where everyone else’s culls are, but,’ Dave shrugged, ‘guess everyone does things differently.’
‘That they do.’
Bob crossed his arms and leaned against the rail. ‘Now, you’ve told me a bit, but tell me more about what you see. Look at the sheep.’
Dave looked again. ‘Various mobs of sheep. There’re ewes, wethers, lambs …’
‘You’re not hearing me, son. What do you see?’ Bob looked at him intently, his hands indicating the sheep that had already been penned.
A flicker of anger touched Dave’s belly. ‘This a trick question?’
Bob shook his head. ‘Being a stockie is about looking, not for what’s there but for what isn’t.’
Dave wanted to snap at the man for talking in riddles, but he held his tongue and tried to understand what Bob was saying.
‘Take this mob of ewes here, who have got a bit of red in their fleece. What does that tell you?’
‘They’ve come off red dirt country. Station country most likely.’
‘Bingo!’ Bob pointed at Dave and nodded. ‘And these ones here. The grey ones.’
‘Off different land—more likely southern where the soils are lighter coloured.’
‘Exactly. Now, see here.’ He walked along the rails until he came to a pen with about thirty wethers in it. ‘What’s wrong with this pen?’
Looking at the sheep, Dave couldn’t see anything. They were all shorn, looked the same …
‘You’re looking for what’s not there, son.’
Clenching his jaw, Dave looked again. Then he saw it. ‘One is coated in red dust and the others are all grey. If they were all from the same place, they’d be a uniform grey. And it’s a bit bigger than the others. Producers in the north like big framed ewes.’
‘Spot on! Buy the man a beer! Let’s go and check the penning card,’ Bob said as he climbed down the ladder to the ground. ‘See, that will show you where they’ve come from, how many should be in the pen, all that sort of stuff. My guess is that there’s a pen of ewes next door that look like they’ve come down from up north, and one has jumped the fence, but it’s always good to check. It’s all about traceability. Tracking the animal from farm gate to plate.’
‘Geez, in all the years I was filling out the paperwork for the truckies when we sent sheep off, I didn’t see it in terms of the big picture.’
‘So many farmers don’t.’ He jumped the fence and grabbed the ewe with the red dust coating and held it tightly in between his legs. ‘Check the ear tag and mark against the penning card, son,’ Bob said.
He read out the tag and the number of animals that should be in the pen, then checked the card on the next yard. ‘Yeah, it’s jumped the fence.’
Bob nodded. ‘Give me a hand and we’ll put it back over.’
Climbing into the yards, Dave grabbed the hind legs and together they flicked the wether over the fence and in with its mates.
Bob cast his eye over the rest of the mob, then grabbed another sheep. ‘See here?’ He pointed to the ear, where the ear tag should’ve been. ‘If you give me a pair of side cutters, I’ll show you how easy it is to get a tag out of an ear. A mutilated ear like this one could be a couple of things—a dog attack or some useless fuck on the lamb-marking cradle didn’t know how to use the markers properly. One in a penful isn’t a problem. But if you get thirty out of fifty, then that’s when you take another look. Do you get my meaning?’
‘Yeah. Yeah, I do. Someone might have tried to change the earmark so the animal can’t be traced.’
Look for what isn’t there. In his mind he could hear Bec’s favourite Play School song—‘One of these is not like the other …’—and that’s what he had to look for.
‘Of course, all that I’ve just showed you there is circumstantial. You need proof to back it all up, but circumstantial is a goo
d start.’ He clapped Dave on the shoulder and climbed over the railing. ‘Come on, let’s get back to the office. If we don’t get going soon, I’ll miss my lunch meeting.’
The office was empty when Dave and Bob arrived back. On the whiteboard Lorri had scrawled: Gone to check camera on Avon.
‘Wonder where the others are,’ Bob muttered as he flicked through the messages on his desk. He held one up and read it a couple of times before handing it over to Dave. ‘Here you go. You follow up on this. I gotta head out. Greg and I are meeting for lunch.’
Dave didn’t bother asking who Greg was. He guessed that Bob was heading to the pub again for what seemed to be his daily special—parmi and beer.
Taking the message, he read it and a smile started. ‘Leave it with me,’ he said.
‘Good man. Catch you later.’ Bob left the office and Dave sat down. Placing his hands on the top of the desk, he pushed down. ‘God, it’s good to be here,’ he said quietly. He looked at the photo of Mel and Bec on his desk, before focusing back on the message.
Ring SS Glenn King from Boogarin Stn.
Dave wished there was a bit more information. Still, all he had to do was pick up the phone and call and he’d know what it was all about. His heart thudded with excitement and, before he could think about it any longer, he snatched up the phone and dialled the number.
Chapter 8
Boogarin Rodeo Day had dawned clear and warm, but by the time the crew from Spinifex Downs had made it into town it was mid-afternoon and the rodeo was in full flight. A land breeze had picked up and the flags flying above the rodeo ground were fluttering around, being tossed by an invisible force.
Kevin watched in the rear-vision mirror as four utes full of young men from Spinifex Downs pulled into the queue. He knew they would all be wearing large grins and he hoped there would be nothing to dampen their enthusiasm tonight. No broken bones would be an advantage too. The last two annual rodeos had gone spectacularly well, from his point of view, and he’d considered not even coming this time.
Kevin would rather be getting around his cattle or tinkering in the shed than be hanging around in town with a heap of strangers. Tourists seemed to flock to these things—an outback experience. But, with his men attending, he’d had no choice but to come.
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